


Second Place Victory

by Clarice Chiara Sorcha (claricechiarasorcha)



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: (or about as close to it as these two get), First Time, Fluff, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, These Guys Are Just Assholes, Yoga
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-26
Updated: 2016-03-26
Packaged: 2018-05-29 03:09:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6356530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claricechiarasorcha/pseuds/Clarice%20Chiara%20Sorcha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Don’t worry, General.” Ren stepped through the door, raising a hand in farewell. Even as it closed between them, he fancied he heard the indignant sound of disgust when he added with something terribly close to good cheer, “I’m always up for a rematch."</i>
</p>
<p>Ren finds General Hux's methods of physical training to be somewhat wanting. He decides to do something about it. And then it's just all about wanting. Period.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Second Place Victory

**Author's Note:**

> For some reason, even when I know I need to stop, I just keep writing these two. Goddammit. This fic was pretty much inspired by [this wonderful piece of fanart](http://viella-art.tumblr.com/post/141342620748/i-headcanon-that-hux-does-yoga-to-relieve-kylo), and I apologise profusely to the artist because there are a ton of great authors in this fandom and all of them could have done a better job that I have here. But for whatever reason, fanart just _haunts_ me these days.
> 
> And now I go back to finishing that longfic I never should have started. Don't worry, it'll all be over soon. <3

Kylo Ren had no interest in spending time around other people. But there was something to be said for the gymnasiums of the great starship. In such places he could be as somebody else. The count of those who knew his face, beneath the mask, numbered less than the fingers upon his left hand. Without said mask, Ren could move amongst them without knowledge, anonymous and watchful and curious.

As such, it had become a way of knowing others, while they gathered nothing further on Ren himself. In this the carefully cultivated image of Kylo Ren remained intact. But from long ago he’d known that even with his ability to skim along the surface of minds, easy and careless as a dancer upon ice, only so much could be gained when the person was wary, or outright frightened. Such rich, vibrant emotion became like static, obscuring the rational. It could be a useful state to induce, in appropriate circumstance, but not when he was more interested in simpler information.

This was a different way to observe. And he was observed in return, though in a largely disinterested way. The Stormtroopers did not care much for individuals; it had been trained out of them long ago. Such knowledge left a bitter taste in Ren’s mouth, one of metal and ash. Only sometimes would he acknowledge the sensation as the faint creeping crawl of jealousy. They had all been taken too young: to remember, to know, to _grieve_. It would have been easier, perhaps.

But he had chosen this path. And in that, his strength – and his reward – would be all the greater.

The enlisted and the officers took more interest. He gave them scorn in return. They found his body remarkable, worthy of their attention: well-muscled, broad, clear-skinned and imbued with a tempered strength apparent in every movement of whichever workout he chose. While the ‘troopers tended to be in decent physical shape, the officers should have known better physical discipline. They looked at him with envy, and he sneered at their imperfect bodies; the inevitable result of desk-bound bureaucrats playing at war.

Ren had immersed himself in a routine with weights when he caught a flash of unmistakable red hair. Surprise hit him, hard and strange, a child’s punch with an adult’s strength: he had never seen _him_ here before. And in his training gear, Hux displayed himself as the perfect example of Ren’s earlier thought: officers should be forced to a more vigorous exercise schedule.

 The man was a lean and hungry creature; even in the perfectly-fitted lines of his uniform, Hux stood like an overstretched shadow before his crew or armies, hands clasped at the small of his back. By his appearance alone, a brisk wind should have been able to knock him down. Only his indomitable will might save him then.

But without the broadened shoulders of the uniform, the weight of his gaberwool greatcoat: so little of him remained behind. Narrow shoulders tapered to a narrower waist that had Ren’s hands twitching about the grip of the bar; he could possibly ring the entire circumference of it with his own hands.

But despite the lack of pronounced musculature, Hux walked now with an easy grace; it was not the stalk of a general about his territories, rather something not dissimilar to that of a dancer taking his stage. Ren heaved the bar up to his chest, used the exhalation of breath to mask the scoffing laugh at the thought of Hux and dance. Ren wasn’t convinced that the places Hux had been grown in even permitted music.

The general carried a bundle under one arm. Drawing his eyebrows close together, Ren continued his set, and did not look away. It made no difference that he was completely aware his gaze tended to make others uneasy, even when he did not intend it. While it was not entirely a matter of his strength with the Force, he suspected that did not help. But the general paid Ren not the slightest heed. Ren scowled around the sour thought that Hux was perhaps so used to being the centre of attention that the scrutiny of one distant man did not matter to him at all.

Hux had chosen a floor area not far from Ren’s weights corner when he stopped, undoing the belts about his bundle. The snort this time escaped before he could even think to stop it. Hux smoothed out a mat, its colour dulled by age and use but otherwise well-maintained. It could be nothing but typical of the man to be disgusted by the idea of sharing gear with the plebeian masses.

The general still had not acknowledged his attention. Ren pushed a moment too long before he turned with dire scowl, moving to add yet more weights on the bar. The faint curiosity of another mind curled about his own: a ‘trooper, moving about his own training schedule not far from Ren’s own chosen place. He had seen him several times before, knew the man wondered as to how Ren maintained his own physique, how he had built it up. A faint concern emanated from him now. Ren never used a spotter, and seeing how Ren pushed himself today left the ‘trooper torn. The man wanted to ask if he could help, yet found himself held silent by awe at his already demonstrated strength.

Ren ignored him. He had no need to generate camaraderie between himself and the ranks. He did not even rank amongst them. Kylo Ren was something beyond them all. With his lips set, jaw tight, Ren began his set. And then he made one simple – and terrible – mistake.

He allowed himself to look at the general.

Hux had begun what passed for his workout. And he lay upon his back, feet planted flat and a shoulder-width apart, hands firm on slim hips. With his shoulders still pressed to the floor, he raised his body, held the stretch: long and lean and lovely, form perfect, his aura a crackling calming thing.

Ren stared. Blinked once. And stared again. This was no meditative practice, but Ren recognised something of it. Indeed, it reminded him faintly of the katas he had learned underneath Luke Skywalker. But _that_ was a shivering shuddering memory, one fit only to be pushed aside, buried alive in the shallowest of graves in the uneasiest of earths. What Hux did now was not the same. His mind remained active, ever-present; Ren could see no real relaxation in his body. But such work invited a kind of discipline, an unyielding self-awareness that nevertheless flowed into an easy muscle memory as he rose gracefully into a second position.

Ren returned to his weights. His attention rebelled all the same, wandering back to Hux with alarmingly regularity. He now stood balanced on one foot with the other drawn up beneath him, eyes closed, spine ramrod straight – and yet, for all the rigid intensity of the pose, he held himself tranquil. Next, he bent forward from the waist, hands against the floor. When he felt this completed he moved again to his back, raising his hips to bear his weight upon his chest and arms; his legs shifted into an arrow formation, knee over his head, one long leg long and stretched beyond his tilted hips.

Ren’s arms had begun to shake, anger coiling low in mind like a dragon’s tail about its most beloved treasures. Such flagrant display could only be but typical of the general, of men of his type. What Hux did now required both skill and practice. But it was no _practical_ skill. It was of no use to anything hut his own vanity. The bar thumped to the ground as he turned, fuming, to reach for another set of weights. The concern of the ‘trooper gave a low burst in his mind, louder now. Ren continued to ignore him. The burn of his muscles brought welcome pain, but it was not enough.

He was lifting the next weight when he looked up, stopped halfway through the sleek motion. His back gave an uneasy twitch, but his arms remained long and dangling, deadweight before his startled wide eyes.

Hux: lain now on his front, but propped up from the hips with his elbows pressed into the mat so he could read from his damned _datapad_. But his legs were held in fierce discipline behind him, in a full split. The tight training pants stretched to straining across firm buttocks, outlining everything between in excruciating detail.

And Hux read on, unaware, uncaring of any attention wasted upon his ridiculous display.

The ache of his arms might have been from the unbalanced weight, or simply that they yearned for nothing more than to close hands around Hux’s pale throat and choke all life from those shifting cold eyes.

“Um, hey.” The ‘trooper, a stocky and well-muscled creature, had come too close. Ren did not look to him, and he cleared his throat, tried again. “Do you need a hand?”

“No.” Flexing his arms, setting his jaw, Ren dug his bare feet into the mats beneath him and jerked his head to one side. “Leave me.”

“I…yeah. Sure, man.”

He’d spoken the wrong way, and he knew it; too commanding, too eloquent in his low rolling bass. It didn’t matter. His attention remained upon Hux, splayed out on the floor in his elegant idiocy. The strain of the weight meant little as he returned it to the stands. A dream state had taken over the higher functions of his mind, footfall measured and deliberate as he crossed the floor. He stopped only when he came before him, allowing the cast of his great shadow over the man below. Hux’s brow furrowed, mouth in a firm moue of displeasure. When their eyes met, it became a dire frown.

“Oh.” And his eyes skipped back down to his work, data reflected in the cool blue. “ _You_.”

“What are you doing?”

Ren had not intended his voice to come out so low, rich and reverberating. But Hux paid it not the slightest heed, one finger flicking to the next page. “Working,” he observed, and his lips curved into a scowl as he added, “But I do understand it’s an unfamiliar concept to you, so I’ll excuse the lack of recognition.”

Ren did not move. “This isn’t useful.”

“To you, perhaps.”

For a moment his vision coloured red, tearing at the edges and burning from the centre outwards, so very like the blade of his saber that for a moment he thought he had ignited the thing in the general’s face. But his saber hilt remained in his chambers, and Ren closed his eyes, drew a breath, and opened them upon a mocking sneer. “But what war are you going to win with tactics like this? Laying about with theories in hand and your legs opened like a whore’s?”

Hux’s gaze narrowed further, his mouth curled and curt. Any member of his staff would have been in fear of their career, their _life_. Ren just smiled wider as Hux drew himself up, stood within clear striking distance. Both barefoot, they were nearly of a height. Somehow Hux still managed to stare down his patrician nose.

“I will win this war with technology and tactics, Ren.” One eyebrow arched. “You can have your magic and your mysticism, and perhaps it will prove useful at some stage. But I won’t place my faith in something that is not real.”

And Hux did not flinch when one hand shot out, closed over his bare arm. “ _I am real_.” Ren pressed fingertips into the lean muscle of his bicep, knowing it would bruise, almost enjoying the aesthetics of dark purple-blue against sun-dappled white. “Perhaps you don’t believe in my “magic,” as you call it,” he continued, almost gentle. Yet when he adjusted his hand, the entire palm would leave a bruise now. “But even an officer should be able to stand against a little physical force.”

The pressure on his arm had become immense. Hux only stared at him, eyes very bright, alight with calculated fury. “You are saying I don’t know how to fight?”

“Clearly you know how to pose and preen.” And he chuckled, released his arm, took one step back; it was no retreat, simply a strategic choice in where best to mock him from. “Real battles are not a series of forms, General,” he added, sly, feeling the interest of the room turned on them both. “But then, you’ve never seen a real battle, have you?”

And then, he could not be entirely sure what had happened. Even his heightened reflexes, physical and otherwise, had not taken the moment necessary to warn him of impending attack. One moment, he laughed into the face of the too-still general; the next, he lay on his back, staring up with wide eyes and a mind jarred free of coherent thought. But he stared at no distant ceiling. Hux loomed above him, bare feet planted either side of his waist, pale hands tight on his dark waist.

“That depends somewhat on your definition of _real_ ,” Hux said, as calm as any conversation tidbit spoken upon his bridge. “And _battle_ , perhaps.”

Ren flowed to his feet, though Hux sidestepped neatly out of the way before even his impressive reach could catch the wretched man about his bared throat. A low growl escaped his own as he surveyed the man now, as Hux had not gone far. It could be little else but a mistake, to rush into a battle in such a way. Snoke had always disapproved of his worst excesses of temper, and yet had done little to curb them. Ren had never known if it was a lesson he was expected to teach himself.

But in this moment, did not care. He wanted his hands around his throat; he wanted that lean body crushed beneath his own, unable to rise for the weight and reality of Ren’s superior strength crushing him into the ground. He could see a flicker of a smile upon Hux’s face as he stepped forward. Curling his own lip, Ren struck. In answer Hux repurposed the momentum of it; pushing him aside, sending him skidding over the floor even as Hux turned. Pushing a hand back through disordered hair, he gave a careless shrug.

“Try again.”

A roar bubbled up from deep in his churning stomach; one shoulder pushed forward, legs bent into pistons for maximum strike power as he shot forward, ready to take him low and hard. Hux let him come – and then curved forward himself, shifting Ren over his back, shaking him off. Ren turned with a roar, came again, received the same treatment. He knew this game, had been taught to grapple and wrestle, for all he preferred his saber. And he paused, took a breath, allowed his anger to settle to a roiling boil.

Hus stood before him in easy parade rest, hands clasped at the small of his back. But he was in no uniform; the first taint of sweat curved the material against his lean chest, the faint curve of hip and thigh. A beginning of colour flushed high on his pale cheeks, his hair wild and bright. But his expression remained otherwise unmoved, his scorn a bright and sharpened blade.

The punch felt to have thrown itself: wild, unthought, desperate to shock him, unseat him, make of him the chaos currently tearing Ren’s sense all to pieces. And yet Hux caught his wrist, sluggish and careless as the manoeuvre had been; it made it too easy for the general to push him over, and down, and on his back again.

“I am not in the mood for this.” One foot rose, pushed down hard on Ren’s heaving chest as that damned eyebrow rose again. “We are done here.”

And Ren could do nothing else but stare. The long lines of him rose above in the perfect aching way of the wings of his own command shuttle, mechanical perfection; the tightness of his singlet and the soft trousers only emphasised the shape of body beneath them. And the memory of him about his forms came so easy; the easy shift of lean muscle under pale skin, the constellations of pale freckles across his shoulders as he’d taken his whole weight upon them. The cold eyes blinked one. But the curl of pleasure came unbidden – and close on its heels, desire: sharp and sudden and almost sweet.

“Well?” His heel ground deeper, bare as his foot remained. “Are we done?”

Hux had a remarkable voice. Much as Ren had no care for the orders it issued, he could not deny its power. His own reply was a half-garbled thing spoken from between clenched teeth. “We’re done.”

Hux moved back, turned away; Ren regained his feet in one swift rising motion. The chattering interest of the others beat against his mind as he turned away; they all wanted to see the unfortunate Stormtrooper who had been fool enough to challenge the general, and then had had his ass handed to him on the general’s own silver platter. Ren waited for no further ridicule, pushing past them all and into the shared refresher room. There, he pressed his forehead against the cool wall, tamped down on a faint, but persistent desire to lash out with the Force. How easy it would be, to sear through their idiot minds in supernova blaze, destroying all memory of what had happened, leaving only the faint taste of ash and smoke in his wake.

Ren returned to his own chambers, the chatter a dull din as he moved beyond those who spoke it. But even during such quiet retreat he still made one last tactical mistake. A single glance back had been enough to ruin it: Hux, standing over his ridiculous mat, stretching his long body in a great arch to one side. And this time when Hux felt Ren’s gaze, he glanced up. The mocking salute proved both as sloppy and smug as the smirk on his damned freckled face.

The urge to break something burned as hot as any of the suns chosen to power Starkiller base.

 

*****

 

And yet, Ren broke nothing at all.

Patience had never been a virtue of his, but he could take welcome pleasure in knowing it would drive Hux mad: waiting for reports of some wanton destruction, giving him fresh and genuine excuse to upbraid the man he considered an interloper upon his command vessel.

But they did not come.

But neither did Hux. Ren could not be entirely surprised by that; Hux rarely sought Ren out, unless it was in some way necessary to the efficient running of his ship or a mission one or both of them had been allocated. Much as Ren would enjoy assigning petty spite to the man, Hux didn’t indulge in such, at least not in such a dedicated sense. He’d certainly take advantage of the opportunity when given it during some other task, but he rarely created such situations for their own sake.

From the beginning Ren had known he would have to go to Hux himself. But he gave it time enough. Though it had been the first time Ren had seen him there, he chose to absent himself from the gymnasium where the general had turned up that day. There were other gymnasiums scattered about the immense spaces of the _Finalizer_ , and besides that, as Master of the Knights of Ren he had spaces enough of his own. But it was too different, to do it alone. Whenever he did, Ren felt keenly the absence of the mindless chatter of the crew. But the risk of Hux himself was too much. The flowing movements, the easy grace; both could work him to utter rage.

And that would not do. Not yet. Not when he had plotted so clearly his revenge.

Under any other circumstance he would have been embarrassed to admit he knew the general’s schedule. There was no mystery to obtaining it; no-one regarded it as any secret, its classification bland and easily accessed. But while it still bothered him to know it, with such knowledge Ren found it too simple indeed to wait for a night where Hux would end on a later shift, the corridors blessedly near-deserted as he stalked through them. The few people he saw looked away, if not outright backed away. It was late – and even had it not been, they still had no desire to interfere with Kylo Ren in a temper.

Before the door to the other man’s quarters, Ren allowed himself a pause. It was no matter of Hux being able to shut him out; even the general’s superior clearances and security could not keep out Kylo Ren if he desired otherwise. But he was not come to lay waste. He would commit to a siege, first. Much as his preference was for immediate strike, in this case Ren figured it would be more interesting to watch the collapse from the inside.

Removing one glove, Ren pressed the pad of his index finger to the doorpad. As he replaced it, the door’s lock flipped to green. He allowed himself a faint smile, behind his mask; of course, the general was yet awake. Palming the panel this time, the door hissed open in welcome. As he stepped inside, it almost immediately moved closed again.

And indeed, it seemed he had timed matters to perfection. The general, while clearly off-duty, remained yet in his uniform. In the main living area of his quarters, he sat before the viewport and its choice view, upon the low couch common the officers’ quarters of the ship. A tumbler was in one hand, filled with a middling amount of amber liquid; he held a datapad in the other hand, clearly immersed in his usual world of reports and technicalities. A raised eyebrow was all he offered for initial greeting, one long leg crossed over the other.

Only when Ren came to a halt a few feet before him did Hux sigh, setting down his glass. “Kylo Ren.” His eyes flicked back to the datapad, then returned to Ren himself with clear reluctance. “And what might I do for _you_ , at this hour?”

Though the mask hid the physical reality of his grin, too much of it slipped into the cadence of even a modulated voice. “We have unfinished business.”

“I believe all your current missions are completed.” This time he made no effort to divert his attention from whatever he read, eyes narrow and flicking back and forth in easy repetition. Still, he added with careless boredom, “Whatever could you be referring to?”

Ren raised his hands. The click and hiss of the jawpiece did not go unnoticed; while Hux’s attention remained on the datapad, Ren still caught the faint tic of a tightening jaw. And he schooled his own expression into something less than the smile he instead smothered inside, and removed the helmet. As he set it aside, he added, “You know what I am talking about.”

His lips pursed, and one – ungloved – finger summoned the next page. “You are very sure I am interested in treading over territory I have already conquered.”

And Ren removed his own gloves, let them fall to the floor. “Perhaps it emancipated itself in your continued absence.”

“Ren.” And his eyes had flickered to the fallen gloves, pale eyebrows drawn together in clear displeasure. Only now did he set the damned datapad aside. Hux then uncrossed his legs, but did not rise. Instead he leaned forward from the waist, elbows on his knees, hands knotted loosely together between his thighs. But even from the lowered position, looking up, he still held deep authority. Ren might have found it admirable, had he been in the mood for scenery-gazing.

Instead, he cocked an eyebrow, insolence coming so terribly easily. “Yes, General?”

“I am not treating you to a rematch. I have no interest in it, for starters.” One hand rose, palm outward, halting any complaint before it could even so much as be thought. “I know you cannot stand to lose. But it was not a situation in which you had any chance of winning. Accept it. Move on. Take the lesson and learn from it.”

“It’s been days.” But it was no whine, no complaint. It could little else but a promise tendered as Ren stepped forward, coming to a halt between his knees. There, looking down upon him, he said with easy glee, “Would you like to see what you taught me?”

“ _Ren_.”

One hand extended towards his face. Hux’s own snapped up, caught his wrist. The general had no real hope of stopping him by brute force, though Ren permitted Hux to hold him there, still smiling. Hux’s own expression could have been carved from the ice of Starkiller itself.

“I said no.”

“You don’t command me.” And his other hand flicked out, anchored upon Hux’s shoulder, dragged him to his feet. Once released, Hux fell into an easy stance. But his face, those pale aristocratic features so suited to pontification, had settled into a frigid mask that sparked contradictory heat all along Ren’s spine.

“Do not _ever_ presume to touch me like that again.”

So very few people could stare Ren in the eye, even with the mask. Hux had not once looked away. And so he smiled, tilted his head, and shrugged. “Then stop me.”

Hux’s lips, usually held so tight and taut, curled in an ugly sneer. Ren still found it rather endearing. “I am not dressed for such theatrics—”

“You wear the uniform of the First Order. Of a general. Of a _soldier_.” And Ren relaxed into a battle-primed stance of his own, loose-limbed and languid. “And you say you are not dressed to fight?”

Hux’s spine remained taut, as if he were a marionette suspended in straight line from the ceiling above. “Not in the games of children, no.”

“How fortunate, then. That we are both grown men.”

One hand moved back through his hair, his entire lower face now distorted by the strength of his grimace. “You are a _child_ , Kylo Ren.”

“Perhaps.” And he laughed, throaty and low. “I do want to play.”

One foot jerked out; its calculated strike toppled Hux easily, but he went down with elegant compact grace, the momentum of his fall redirected into a light half-spin that brought him back upright. The rising colour of his cheeks had Ren biting his lip, eyes catching on the shimmer of his hair, now falling loose from its usual tidy coiffure.

But Hux stared only at him. “This is your last chance,” he said, very low, burning with fury. “Get _out_.”

“I’d prefer to stay.” He adjusted his weight, swinging back on his heels, not bothering to conceal his amusement. “If it’s all the same to you.”

Another strike, which Hux blocked, even as it threw him off-balance. Their earlier fight have given Ren knowledge enough, and it appeared the uniform – so unlike the sleek smoothness of his workout clothes – hindered him. Under ordinary circumstances it would have been little issue, but in close quarters with the Master of the Knights of Ren, it left Hux with a small but distinct disadvantage.

Ren gave Hux no quarter, crowding him close, shifting his grip, giving him nothing to work with as they grappled together. Hux had leverage on his side, but Ren’s bulk had become an advantage now he understood how Hux would seek to use it against him. And now he had him upon the floor, knees pressed up against his ribs, hands on his elbows, hips pushed low over his waist, grinning like a madman.

Hux lay very still beneath him. And then he surged up, and had Ren not jerked back his teeth might have closed about something vital. He should have been furious. Anyone else, he would have struck across the face. And yet instead he laughed, strange and discordant; from the wince upon Hux’s face, it still held that flicker of madness that had so disturbed his mother, back when he’d been a child.

“Ah, this is a _friendly_ bout, General,” Ren said, dangerously close to jolly. “It wouldn’t do to leave a mark.”

“I’ll rip off your damn ear, Ren,” he hissed, once again gone very still; a snake calculating its strike. “They both certainly provide a hard target to miss.”

While Ren had taken to bloodlust with a dizzying ease, such pure _delight_ was not something he usually felt during any fight. “Have you degenerated to verbal insult, now?” His pressed his face close: too close, when he saw a flash of those perfect white teeth. And his eyes caught on his lips, trembling with Hux’s barely-repressed fury. His own mouth turned dry, thirsting for something he had never before desired to taste.

And Hux made a low sound in his throat, feral and furious alike. “Come a little closer, _Lord_ Ren, and we’ll eschew verbal communication altogether.”

And he laughed, hoarse, broken, delighted. “Are you really that easy, General?”

At first, Ren could see only confusion. But his disappointment evaporated the moment Hux’s eyes widened with fierce understanding. Their strange pale colour had always fascinated Ren: blue and grey and green, all together, a sharp kaleidoscope of broken glass. How he wanted to thrust himself upon their fury now.

“I’m going to kill you.”

Ren shifted his hips. Just a little. Just enough. “No, you’re not.” And again he leaned close, pressing his weight over him, coming just close enough to whisper against his bared throat. “It would be detrimental to the mission,” he said, very soft; his lips were against his pulse when he added, thoughtful. “And you do love your little missions.”

Hux used the shift in Ren’s weight to roll his hips, to try and lift him; Ren expected it, moved back. The drag of something hard and heated against the backs of his thighs made him laugh aloud.

“Oh.” And he pushed back with his buttocks, felt his own skin warm in response as he sat back on Hux’s trembling thighs, saw what even his rigid regulation trousers could not hide. “Oh, you _enjoy_ this.”

“Ren.”

“No,” he said, rather enchanted. The sensation equated to something very much like being half-drunk, for all he’d rarely imbibed. But even more rarely had he known his: the curl of heat, low in his abdomen. The crawling sensation of static charge, humming beneath skin that felt suddenly too tight.

Quite of its own will a hand glided down, came to pointed rest over the other man’s crotch. Hux’s curse strangled itself on hissing indrawn breath; when Ren glanced up, he saw Hux’s expression had stilled, eyes wide, jaw taut, his hatred a litany burned into the colourless canvas of his eyes. Ren blinked, and then curled his fingers about what he found there.

And even as his hips moved up, pressing against Ren’s curious touch, his words gritted out between his teeth. “I will not warn you again.”

“You don’t have to.” Ren moved back, just a little further; letting go of Hux’s other elbow, he reached to his own trousers, pushing the tunic out of the way to loosen his own flies. From the flinch that flickered across Hux’s face, his own expression held more than a hint of madness. “I’ve just worked out how we can end this.”

“ _No_.”

“Yes.” And he picked up Hux’s limp right hand, pressed the palm to his own rising heat. “First one to come, loses.”

“You stupid bas— _oh_.”

The long length of his back arched in an almost violent spasm. The neatly manicured nails scrabbled at the floor, heels drumming in discordant desperation. Ren paid this all little heed, intrigued instead by the _length_ of him, in his hand. Already he had set about working him free, but their position made it hard to see. And he _wanted_ to see.

He saw no need to think too hard on any of this. Sexual congress was something Ren had rarely considered, even before the isolation of being Snoke’s apprentice had closed about him like an opaque cocoon. He’d known his own hand, from time to time. Outside of that, he had not really considered the pleasure that might be had in doing similar for another.

The heat of came as something of a shock, skin silken over the hardened shaft; it amused him, considering how cold Hux’s eyes remained, even above the flush of his cheeks, the mouth half-opened, trapped between pleasure and furious loathing.

“You’re losing, General.”

It flickered like molten ice in his eyes: the exact moment Hux made his decision and committed all resources to its completion. Ren’s breath caught on a trembling moan as cool fingers twisted about his own aching dick. And Hux grimaced as it passed over the head, leaking fluid; first he gave a rough twisting pull, before the hold became limp, almost gentle in its drag. Then it tightened again, fingernails close enough to hurt.

“Careful.”

Hux snorted. “Why?”

“A little pain goes a long way.” And he dipped close, whispered against one ear: “But I like a little sweet, too.”

And he took great amusement in watching the emotions battle across that pale face: his dismay, his disbelief, his disgust. On their first meeting Ren had thought Hux little better than an automaton, a protocol droid married to the subroutines of a military simulator with but the least amount of a true soldier’s drive. But in this, he had become something more. He could bleed – though it was not blood that concerned him most, in this moment.

By now both were hard, breaths coming in uneven pant and gasp. Their mouths were half-opened, but when Ren ducked closer, Hux turned his face away. With a smirk, he instead passed fingertips over the taut skin of his balls. Ren did not need to trace along the broken edges of his electric mind to know how close to the edge he was.

“Oh, come _on_ ,” he said, voice low, teasing. The fingers of his hand now moved in rippling grasp along the pulse of his shaft, teasing and light as he pressed lips against skin. “I remember it, very well. You, in the training hall, prissy and preening, lounging all over the mats with those long legs of yours. You knew I was watching. You _wanted_ me to watch.”

Hux’s nails were pressing against the silken skin of his own prick, warning, even as his smile grew sharp teeth. “Dream on, you wretched bastard.”

“But _you_ were dreaming.” And Ren drew close, brushed his lips against the quick-time beat of his pulse. “Of me, coming over there. Laying my hands on your spread thighs. Bending your back near to breaking.” And he chuckled, rich and resonant. “And then you dreamed of me thrusting my cock into your tight little ass.”

The heat in his hand came sticky and sudden. Ren stuttered to a stop, glanced down, eyes wide and blinking. And then: laughter escaped, too high and deeply startled. Below the rising flush of his horrified face, Hux’s hand paused over Ren’s cock, the long and lean body drawn taut as a bow, though he had already loosed his arrow, so to speak.

And he did not, could not meet Ren’s gaze, eyes rolled back, neck arched, hair in red ruin. And Ren himself could not hope to ever look away from the glorious mess that had once been a general.

His mouth, usually twisted in disgust or disdain, hung half-open, caught on the last of the orgasm he had managed to wrest into impossible silence. And he moved only as Ren did, hand rising from the mess of Hux’s own crotch. Those half-lidded eyes held a watchful gaze, even when a good chunk of Hux’s conscious brain had surely disconnected itself from reality. And Ren smiled. The man’s current state simply presented too much of a temptation. It felt almost too easy to arch forward, pushing his fingers into the general’s opened mouth.

“Winner takes all,” he whispered, pressing down on the stilled tongue, feeling the promised threat of teeth pressing into his skin. And he only smiled wider, no intention to withdraw. “Can you taste my victory, General?”

Hux, for all the clear fury in his dampened eyes, did not bite down. He instead placed one hand at the centre of Ren’s chest, shoved back with admirable strength. His right hand remained on Ren’s cock, harsh and hard. And now his eyes flaring with fury; even in defeat, he did not leave his work undone. “You are a dirty, disgusting little beast.” And when Ren’s cock, aching and leaking both, gave an interested little twitch, his expression congealed. “And…you _like_ that.”

A chuckle escaped, between the heavy breaths; Hux’s hand was already becoming surer about his work as the man came back to himself. And Ren liked that, too; amusing as it was to see the man undone, it was the challenge in his eyes and his lean form that he liked best. “Well, I think we’re learning a lot here about what we both like,” Ren murmured, and Hux scowled, gave a fierce and almost painful yank.

“I _hate_ you.” And Ren stiffened, laughter turning to a high gasp; Hux’s eyes widened, expression dawning into fresh horror. “Oh, _what_.”

Ren could not help it. Even as the orgasm rattled through him, sharp and painful, laughter rocked him from his very core. Drawing back, he collapsed to one side; Hux, bright red even beneath his flaming hair, sat up in such a way that it was clear he ached from every moment they had spent together.

“I never should have let you in here.”

“But you did.” And Ren had not laughed like this in years. Perhaps ever. Amusement still curled warm about his heart as he found his feet, reaching for his mask. Though the actual laughter had died after he’d tidied himself back beneath his robes, the warmth of it lingered: soft and easy and so very strange.

He could not be surprised when he turned back to see Hux had clawed back a great deal of his own equilibrium, though his high flush had not abated. But his uniform had been put to admirable rights, hair smoothed back, lips pursed in his usual moue of absolute distaste.

But he could not stand. That made Ren smirk behind the mask as Hux settled himself upon the settee, drink in hand, eyes too bright. “I am asking you to leave.” He said it very slow, very careful, as if he feared he’d forgotten how. “And it is not a request.”

And still he was glad for the mask. His smile had turned ridiculously fond, even as the vocoder generously wiped away all traces of amusement.

“Don’t worry, General.” Ren stepped through the door, raising a hand in farewell. Even as it closed between them, he fancied he heard the indignant sound of disgust when he added with something terribly close to good cheer, “I’m _always_ up for a rematch.”


End file.
